The ruins are quiet now.
Quiet in the way only freshly ruined places can be—smoke drifting, dust settling, bits of reality still deciding whether they're done screaming.
I stand in the middle of it, one foot on a cracked slab of concrete, holding a decapitated head by the helmet strap. I don't know who he is yet. To me, he's just… a prop. A very expressive one.
I clear my throat and deepen my voice, channeling something stern and authoritative.
"Please," I say, in my best gravelly general impression, gesturing at a pile of rocks nearby. "You must not destroy the children."
The head tilts as I wiggle it.
In a crisp London accent, it replies, "No. They have been harboring treason against the Queen."
I squint at the rocks.
"Look at them," the head continues. "The rocky guiltiness is seeping through the rocky pores."
I shake my head solemnly. "No. It is false. They are not guilty. Look at their innocent eyes."
I reach into hammerspace and pull out a handful of googly eyes.
I press them onto the rocks.
They stare back at us. Innocent. Unblinking. Profoundly unqualified for treason.
There is a brief moment of silence.
Then I sigh.
"Alright," I say, casually tossing the head over my shoulder. It bounces once and rolls out of sight. "This is getting boring."
I dust off my suit and look around.
"Now where to? What should I do? What should I do…"
That's when I notice them.
A small group of civilians at the edge of the destruction. Staring. Whispering. Some of them filming. Some of them very clearly about to remember this forever.
Ah.
Right.
Damage control.
I spin.
The world blurs, lines smearing, colors snapping into place, and when I stop I'm dressed in black. Sharp suit. Sharper attitude. Sunglasses so dark they eat light. Still animated. Still wrong.
I stride over, already pulling something from my coat.
A neural destabilizer.
I flash it.
Once. Twice. Rapid-fire.
Eyes glaze. Jaws slacken. Memories unravel like cheap yarn.
I point vaguely behind them and announce, loudly and confidently:
"Nothing to see here, folks. Just a movie prop accident. Move along. Move along. Security, security."
On cue, security appears.
So does a film crew.
Cameras. Boom mics. Clipboards. All very real. All very normal. None of them animated. None of them animals.
From an SCP perspective, this would be a nightmare-class cognitive hazard.
From my perspective?
Toon force doing its job.
The civilians blink, nod, and walk away, already discussing lunch plans and wondering why they feel vaguely tired.
Once the last one is gone, the illusion collapses.
Security. Film crew. Equipment.
All of it folds inward and merges back into me in a neat, efficient fwump.
I'm alone again.
I pull out a map of the world and sit on a chunk of rubble, legs dangling.
"Okay," I mutter. "I'm in France. I had French cuisine. I took pictures. I fought their military for some reason."
I tap my chin.
"The government is probably scared. Thinking I might overthrow their rule."
I glance at my watch.
June 1st, 2000.
"America?" I consider. "Nah. They're not great yet. Fast food's probably mid-tier. A lot of future foods don't exist."
I tilt my head.
"Russia? Is it still the Soviet Union now? Or maybe I could kickstart a reformation. New animated rule. That'd be fun."
I flip the map.
"Japan…" I smile. "They seem like the kind of country that would accept a toon. I could even become a pop star."
CLANG.
A frying pan slams into the back of my head.
I drop instantly, stars exploding across my vision as cartoon birds circle above me, chirping merrily.
As my consciousness fades, I catch a glimpse of the person holding the pan.
Lab coat.
Grin.
Too much confidence.
He looks down at me. Then at the frying pan.
Then he says, loudly, proudly:
"That was very easy. Does this mean I'm stronger than this anomaly?"
He raises the pan like a holy relic.
"Behold my infinite power of the frying pan! If you do not listen to my demands, I will punish thee under the infinite whelp of my frying-pan-poweredness!"
There is a long, unamused silence.
Somewhere behind him, a researcher sighs.
"Shoot him."
A rifle cracks.
The man with the pan drops instantly, lifeless before he hits the ground.
Temporary problem solved.
The birds keep chirping.
And somewhere, deep inside my very unconscious toon brain, something squeaks.